“THE POTHOLE THAT OWE ME MONEY”

By Deshawn “Menace” Porter

Let me tell y’all something real quick: There’s a pothole on Jackson Ave that owe me $187.43 and an apology.

I ain’t even exaggerating. This pothole ain’t normal. This pothole ain’t regular. This pothole is a public enemy with a zip code.

I hit it last week and my car made a noise I ain’t never heard before — sounded like a grown man sighing in disappointment. My steering wheel shook like it was catching the Holy Ghost. My radio switched to AM by itself. Even Siri got quiet like, “Yeah… you on your own, big dawg.”

And the crazy part? Memphis got potholes that move. I swear they be shifting around like they trying to catch you lacking. You dodge one today, it pop up on a whole different street tomorrow like:

“Remember me, lil bruh?”

I’m convinced these potholes got group chats. They be texting each other like:

“He coming down Chelsea. Get in formation.”

And don’t let it rain. Oh, when it rains? That’s when the potholes get sneaky. They turn into lil puddles, acting innocent, looking all shallow and cute. Then BOOM — your whole front end disappear like a magic trick.

I hit one puddle so deep I thought I unlocked a new level of Memphis.

But here’s the thing: Memphis drivers built different. We don’t swerve — we dance. We be out here doing choreography in traffic like:

left-right-left

dip

slide

brake

pray

And nobody honks because we all understand the struggle. You see somebody swerving crazy, you don’t judge. You just nod like:

“Yeah, I know exactly which one you dodging.”

Look… I love my city. But these potholes? They fighting for their life to take me out. And honestly, they winning by points.

If the city ever fixes them, I might cry. Not out of joy — out of confusion. Because at this point, the potholes are part of the culture. They like family. Toxic family, but still family.

Anyway… If you see me driving slow, mind your business. I’m not scared — I’m trauma-informed.